


give me back my heart you wingless

by WarriorHeart



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Filth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Whump, each chapter is tagged, sometimes no comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorHeart/pseuds/WarriorHeart
Summary: A series of random stories loosely based on the Tumblr Whumptober 2020 prompts, however not all are whump. Angst, smut, comfort, fluff and of course whump are all included. Individual chapters are tagged in notes.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt/Various, Various Pairings
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	1. Restrained/Hanging

**Author's Note:**

> Eskel is captured on a job. His captors decide to have some fun.
> 
> Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, restraints, knifeplay, breathplay.

Eskel had found himself in many sticky situations before, both from men and monsters alike, but he had to admit this was becoming the most annoying.

He'd taken a job in some rundown city near the coast. People were being attacked on the roads coming and going from the city, and the people weren't sure if it was a group of bandits or some monster. Either way, they'd found it suitable to request help from a Witcher. The alderman had bitterly commented that the soldiers of the kingdom had brushed them off without a second thought, and coin was coin.

He was beginning to regret that mentality.

There had been a number of nekkers in the area, enough that Eskel had been worn down with more than a few lucky scratches. He'd been finishing off the last of them when a well-aimed stone sent stars bursting through his vision. He'd stumbled, allowing his new attacker to get close enough to slam the pommel of their sword into the side of his head, sending him spiraling into darkness.

His head was still throbbing when he came to what he assumed was a few hours later. For a moment he frowned, as his vision was still black, before realizing he was blindfolded and gagged.

An ache in his shoulders made him take stock of the rest of his body. His weapons, potions and bombs had been removed, along with most of his armor, leaving him with his linen undershirt and muddied trousers. His wrists were tied together, hands forced to clamp around one another, with layers of cloth wrapped around to keep him from using his Signs. A chain led from his wrists to what he assumed was the ceiling, which was rather unfortunate given his arms were secured behind his back.

The angle would be uncomfortable enough, probably enough to dislocate a normal human's shoulders, if he wasn't also barely able to touch the ground. His feet, spread uncomfortably wide with a metal bar, just brushed the hard stone, giving him a taunting taste of stability. He could feel himself swaying slightly from his small movements, hissing a breath out slowly through his - rather unpleasant-smelling - gag.

As it stood, he wasn't strong enough to break free from anything. Theoretically, he could dislocate his shoulders to get his arms back in front of him and give himself more leverage, but without a stable grounding point he would likely just swing himself back and forth in vain. He had little choice but to wait for his captors to appear and make their demands.

His wounds from the nekkers, while not bad in the first place, were aching as his limbs were pulled nearly to their limits. His skin was slick with sweat, and he had to flick his head a few times to get his hair out of his face.

Though Eskel usually had a good sense of time passing, with few sounds to guide him and no change in temperature, he wasn't entirely sure how long had passed before footsteps scuffled along the floor. There was the smell of oil and light flickering beyond his blindfold, so he assumed the two - three? - men who approached were most definitely human, and were likely keeping him below ground, which would definitely complicate his escape a bit. Without an easy window to dive out of or door to slam through, his chances of being caught again rose exponentially. Let alone being able to find his weapons and armor.

"Ah, looks like the beast's awake." To Eskel's annoyance, he couldn't pin the accents, either. They spoke Common, and there most definitely _was_ an accent, but not one he had heard in a long while, if ever. He remained still as the light approached. A soft scrape left the light at a fixed point while the two shadows moved before it. A hand gripped his chin, and the Wolf snarled, earning himself a rough backhand that stung his cheek.

"Be quiet, mutt. I've enough sense to be ready to slit your throat if you get too out of hand."

The noirette simmered but remained still, toes scrabbling slightly at the ground instinctively as he swayed from the force of the slap. Another hand ran along his arms, tugging slightly at the chain connected to the ceiling. "If it can take his weight like this, I doubt he'll be tearing it out anytime soon."

Eskel startled slightly as a hand rested on his thigh, the next voice coming from behind him. It made him acutely aware of the fact he was nearly bent in half, and unease roiled in his stomach. "Good. Wouldn't do well to have him break free in the middle of everything."

Eskel felt every muscle in his body tense as the hand on his leg squeezed slightly, trailing up slowly until the man was cupping his ass. He squeezed again, painfully tight, and the Witcher bit down on his noise of discomfort. He knew very well how this was going to go from the touch alone.

"Come now," the man behind him crooned, leaning over to murmur in his ear. Eskel squirmed as the man pressed against him, ass clenching instinctively as he felt a half-hard length grind into him. "It's not every day a Witcher is laid out so nicely for us."

A low, breathy laugh came from the man before him. A hand was on Eskel's chin again, fingertips digging into the edges of his scars. "Those nekkers did us quite the favor, wearing you out so much." He thumbed over a shallow cut on Eskel's cheek, drawing a soft hiss from the Witcher. "Bruised you up nice and pretty, too."

Eskel jerked his head out of the man's grip, growling even as a low simmer of fear spread through his chest. Bound as he was and unable to see his captors to assess them, he was at their mercy. No matter how sinister it was. Instead of a slap this time, however, a sudden weight on the bar between his ankles made Eske let out a groan of discomfort.

"Play nice," the man behind him murmured, "and we might be gentle." He rocked his hips forward to drive home his point, and Eskel bit down on the gag to hold back any sound his body tried to betray. A hand strayed under his shirt, tracing along his chest and stomach before calloused fingers twisted one of his nipples.

Eskel squirmed in discomfort, drawing a low hiss from the man still pressed into his backside. "Shaking like an eager whore," he chuckled, finally drawing back. The sound of a buckle being undone made the Witcher's heart start to race, because not a moment later there were two buckles dropping to the floor.

A hand tugged at his bound wrists, forcing him to straighten painfully. Something cold and sharp traced his chest above his shirt, and Eskel forced himself to be very still. He could hear the smile in the man's voice as he crooned, "Afraid of a little knife, Witcher?"

The blade dug in slightly, enough to slice his shirt away while leaving stinging lines of blood welling in its path. The scraps of fabric were ripped away, and Eskel jerked again when the blade settled lightly - and threateningly - over his crotch. He felt the warm breath across his face as the man leaned in and said quietly, "While you may be infertile, I'm quite sure losing this would still hurt. You can still be pleasured. Be a shame if we had to take that from you."

The knife moved to his thighs instead, slicing into his pants. These cuts were deeper, and Eskel didn't bother to hide his hissing. The blade trailed upward, and then the tip was digging deeply into his waist as the man carved something in.

Eskel's breathing had picked up, but as the blade twisted in his skin he let out another groan of pain and discomfort. The knife was withdraw and his wrists were released, allowing him to slump forward, panting.

The hands on his thighs returned, trailing up to his ass to knead the area briefly before his trousers were pulled down. Eskel shivered at the rush of air and the sting of the material dragging along his new cuts, hands flexing the smallest bit possible from beneath their bindings. The man behind him seemed to be kneeling as he ran his hands along Eskel's legs again, following the curves of the muscles and the scars. He leaned in as his hands reached Eskel's ass again, spreading him, and the noirette whimpered at the soft puffs of breath against his skin.

The knife was pressed to his chin, tilting his head up. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. One way you get to enjoy yourself at least a little, the other my friend goes in dry and doesn't give a fuck at all about what he tears in the process." The knife trailed up, slicing through the gag and leaving another shallow cut on Eskel's cheek. He spat the fabric out, feeling himself begin to tremble as a finger traced his rim.

The knife tilted his chin up again. "Well?"

Gritting his teeth and preparing for the inevitable, Eskel spat at the man. "Go fuck yourself."

The knife dug into his shoulder, and Eskel howled as the man behind him stood, clicking his tongue. "Dear Witcher, I thought you'd be more agreeable than this." One hand remained on the Witcher's ass while the other retreated, and Eskel's hips jerked as the head of the man's cock pressed against his entrance. "One last chance. Ask nicely and we might change our minds."

The knife twisted in his shoulder, and Eskel gasped out, "Go to hell."

The knife tore out from his shoulder as the man behind him thrust inside, and Eskel cried out. While he was no stranger to bottoming, it was always with considerable preparation and care. This was raw and dry, and he could feel himself tearing as the man sunk in to the hilt, letting out a groan. "Have it your way."

He was too distracted to notice the clink of metal until something new was being fastened around his head. Metal clamps forced their way into his mouth, forcing it open as the gag was secured. The man behind him began to roll his hips slowly, and Eskel felt himself whimper as the shadow of the man before him blocked out the flickers of light he could see through the blindfold.

Without warning, the man thrust in, and Eskel gagged. Both were average in a way; the one in his mouth wasn't particularly thick, but it was long, and the man groaned as his throat convulsed around it. The one in his ass was shorter, for sure, but thick as Eskel's own cock, which made the painful drag in and out so much worse.

The one in his mouth sat there for a moment, a soft sigh leaving him as Eskel choked around him. The other had set a fairly steady pace for himself, slow enough to be torture for Eskel but fast enough to be satisfying to his captor. His hips were gripped harshly, and a foot pressed down on the bar between his legs again. His shoulders screamed in protest, trembling ominously, and the new wound burned.

"Just like a whore," the man before him groaned, beginning to thrust at a faster pace than his companion. The uneven paces sent the Witcher swaying between them; now and again his hips would be pushed back to meet the cock in his ass, sending jolts of pain and faint sparks of pleasure down his spine as the man found that sweet spot within him. In turn, the occasional sharp thrust from behind sent the cock in his throat even deeper, and Eskel's head was beginning to get fuzzy.

They continued like that for a while. Eskel felt static overtaking his mind when the man in front of him pulled out, and he gasped in relief, panting and coughing. The man laughed softly, tracing a thumb along Eskel's chin and swiping up the spit that had spilled out of his mouth. "Even better than a whore, to be honest."

The man behind him groaned softly, pulling Eskel's hips up slightly and setting a rougher pace. The new angle sent him pounding against Eskel's sweet spot, and to his mortification a whine left his throat. Between his legs, his own cock was hard and untouched, leaking slightly.

"Oho," the knife-wielded crooned, "enjoying this, are we?" His hand brushed down, stroking Eskel's cock briefly, and the Witcher _sobbed._ Then he squeezed, tight and unforgiving, and he screamed.

"Always knew you beasts were just looking for a good fuck," the man behind him groaned, hips snapping painfully against Eskel's ass. "It's a wonder they let you into brothels. Good in the long run, I suppose. Keeps you from ravaging some poor virgin."

The hand on his cock relented, and Eskel let out a shuddering breath before it wrapped around his throat. "Well," the man chuckled darkly, "let's give you something to remember."

Then he thrust back into Eskel's mouth, still choking off his airway, and the tears finally began to fall. Most of them soaked into the blindfold, but as the noirette struggled against his hold, struggled to get away from both of them and from the painful pleasure they were forcing on him, a few shook loose.

A breathy laugh came from above. "Never thought I'd see the day when a fucking mutant started crying." He eased his grip on Eskel's throat as his hips snapped more erratically. "It's pathetic. No wonder they killed most of you off."

The man behind him snickered. "Funny how Witchers were supposed to be elite. Look at you now. Pathetic and worthless." He began to thrust faster, a groan slurring his last few words. A hand reached around, jerking at his cock roughly, and Eskel wailed around the one in his mouth. "C'mon, you beast. Show us what you've got."

His hips stuttered as he came unwillingly. Every muscle in his body clenched, and the man behind him moaned loudly as he came soon after, rocking his hips through the whole thing. A hand tightened around his throat again, and Eskel was near passing out when the other man came down his throat with a groan.

They stayed like that for a few moments before pulling away and redressing, from the sounds of it. One of them grabbed the torch as they left, leaving the only sound that of Eskel's ragged panting - and breathless sobs.


	2. Pick Who Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and his brothers are rendered helpless when the Wild Hunt enter Kaer Morhen. A familiar face offers him a choice.
> 
> (Set after Hearts of Stone, assuming you let Olgierd die.)
> 
> Warnings: Canonical character death.

Geralt doesn't remember much one the doors burst open other than the cold.

His mind seems to slow, and he's a prisoner in his own body as he sees Eredin and his men stride in at an infuriatingly lazy pace. The King of the Wild Hunt moves over to the White Wolf, tracing a hand along his jaw. His voice is distorted beneath his mask, but Geralt can hear the smile in it.

"I wonder, Wolf. When all of this is over, will you be as brave as you were at the start?"

Eredin moves away, behind him, and Geralt is cursing the fact that he can't fucking _move,_ he can think and observe but he can't _stop them._

He hears Vesemir behind him, shouting out for Ciri, the whirl of his blade, before there's two distinct claps and the entire area goes still and silent.

Geralt finds himself stumbling back, confusion shooting through him when he sees his frozen body before him. He looks down at himself; his hands are faintly transparent, but a voice reaches his ears before he can process it further.

"Dear Witcher, you certainly love finding yourself in the worst of situations."

Geralt whirled, heart racing. Sitting on the wall to the right of Vesemir and Ciri sits Gaunter O'Dimm, a smile playing at his lips as always. But it's not sinister, nor eager; it's sad. Resigned as he looks out on the scene before him.

Geralt takes a shaky step towards him. "O'Dimm- Please. Can you- Can you help me? Can you do anything?"

"Those are dangerous words to offer me, Geralt," O'Dimm said softly, gently, as he slid down from the wall. He tucked his hands behind his back, making his way over to the Witcher as he studied the frozen figures before him. "If I could have, I would have done so already. As it stands, I cannot interfere in such a way with the Wild Hunt. Due to our similar natures, things would only be worse if I, for example, whisked you and yours far away from here."

"Then why are you here?" Geralt whispered, feeling his voice crack. O'Dimm finally turned to face him.

"You and your kin will die from that ice within twenty minutes. It's slowly creeping towards your hearts. Humans would have far less time, but it's unavoidable. I cannot fight the Wild Hunt for you, but I can ensure you live to fight them yourself."

"How?"

"A simple shield around your hearts that will thaw the ice at the same time. However, it's quite the delicate process. And unfortunately not one I can do for free, even for you."

The Wolf's heart sank. "What do you want?"

"What I _want_ is for you and yours to survive this. What I want is to be able to see you in action a few more times, because quite frankly you are a marvel to behold, Geralt." O'Dimm shook his head. "The heart is a fragile thing to work with. I could perhaps have gotten away with merely taking the soul of an animal you're fond of if it was just you, but the cost grows exponentially. For three, someone dear to you must die."

Geralt pressed his eyes shut, turning his head away. He'd suspected as much, though it was a bit unusual for O'Dimm to be so... melancholic about claiming a soul.

"It must be someone in the vicinity," O'Dimm continued softly. "I cannot be venturing across the continent for this, Geralt. I cannot keep time frozen forever, as much as I'd like to. You must decide quickly."

"It's not fair," the Witcher whispered, running a hand through his hair. "You may as well have rolled a die and picked one of us at random."

"The world is far from fair, my dear Wolf." O'Dimm's hand rested on his shoulder. "I can grant access to this pocket of reality to one of your companions, if you wish to confer with them. But it will shorten your time to decide."

Geralt opened his eyes, looking out at Ciri and Vesemir. His answer must have been in his face, because O'Dimm smiled sadly, making his way over to the eldest Witcher. A touch was all it took for a similarly spectral form of Vesemir to step from his body, looking less surprised than anyone should have been.

Vesemir's gaze settled on O'Dimm, and his expression turned grim. Then he saw Geralt, and he made his way over as the Wolf began to tremble.

"Come here," he murmured, pulling Geralt close as the younger Witcher's barriers crumbled. The weight and hopelessness of the situation tumbled into his mind, making him feel as if he couldn't breathe. Vesemir rubbed his back, sighing faintly. "You always have to be the strongest, don't you?"

"I can't," Geralt forced out, clinging to his mentor, the only real father figure he had known. "O'Dimm- he can save some of us-"

"I know," Vesemir interrupted softly. "This is far from my first meeting with him, Geralt."

"One of us has to- to die. I can't... I can't-"

"You can," Vesemir said firmly, tilting Geralt's head up to look him in the eye. "We all went into this ready to lay down our lives, Geralt. You cannot crumble when that time comes for one of us."

Geralt saw O'Dimm out of the corner of his eye, the merchant's face mournful, and his heart clenched. "Vesemir-"

"Shush now, pup. I've said many times I've been lucky to have lasted this long, and to help raise the three of you and see you grow... To be a friend to Ciri..." Vesemir shook his head. "It's as close to the life I'd imagined long ago as I can get as a Witcher."

"No," Geralt choked out, hands gripping Vesemir's belts and tunic. "No, we can figure something else out. Please-"

"We're running out of time," Vesemir murmured, holding him close again. Geralt rested his head against the Witcher's chest, listening to his steady heartbeat as he felt like he was drowning. "And it's already done."

Geralt pressed his eyes shut. He'd seen it in the Witcher's face, but the words were brutal. "Please, Vesemir. I- We still need you-"

"No," Vesemir interrupted softly. "You need each other, now. It's alright, Geralt. I've been ready for a while now. Let me go."

"Please," Geralt begged, holding on to the man before him for dear life. "Please, don't."

"If it's not me, it would be one of you," Vesemir rumbled, brushing Geralt's hair out of his face. "I could never live with myself if that happened."

Tears stung Geralt's eyes, and Vesemir brushed them away as they fell. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Vesemir."

"None of this is your fault," the old Wolf murmured. "You could never have predicted all of this back then. And besides, we all know I was bound to keel over someday soon anyways."

A hiccuping sob leaves the White Wolf at the half-hearted joke. Vesemir cupped his face in his hands, smiling gently. "It will be alright, Geralt. Live. Live for me, for your brothers." He pressed a soft kiss to Geralt's forehead. "Live for Ciri."

And then he was drawing away, turning to O'Dimm and nodding. The merchant cast Geralt a sorrowful look, clapping his hands twice as Vesemir knelt before him.

When Geralt opened his eyes again, he sunk to his knees instantly. Shards of ice scattered the ground around him, and he could hear Lambert cursing softly as he broke free. Eskel grunted in discomfort, both of them turning to him - and seeing what was beyond him.

Geralt slammed a fist into the stone below him, cracking it and rattling the ice around him. He lifted his head up to the sky and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotions! They're fun!
> 
> Deviated slightly from the prompt, as Vesemir didn't really give Geralt much of a choice.
> 
> Let me know if you find any mistakes <3


	3. Manhandled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert's itching to find his Cat after a long winter.
> 
> His Cat feels the same way.
> 
> Warnings: Manhandling, pet names, teasing, rimming, roughness.
> 
> (It's not whump, it's just filth.)

Lambert had an itch under his skin all winter. It had been clear to his fellow Wolves that he was anxious to leave the keep in spring, though a late storm had delayed their exit by about three weeks above their average. So by the time he reached the village he and Aiden had long since settled as their reunion point, he was like a starved man hurrying to a feast.

Only to find Aiden hadn't yet arrived.

The innkeeper had told him that the last time he'd seen the Cat was when he and Lambert parted ways as the frost began to set in. The man had become a sort of friend to the two Witchers over the years, often having a room ready and a hot meal at their usual table whenever they arrived, so Lambert trusted him not to lie just to get him out of town.

Most of the villagers had come to at least tolerate the Witchers as the innkeeper had. Spring was always a nasty time for monsters to start their hunts again, and with farmers out in the fields preparing for planting season, they came to rely on the two Witchers' arrival in the spring to clear out any unwelcome visitors. They'd long since secured a permanent discount at both the blacksmith and the tailor, which was quite useful during the middle of summer when they wandered back this way to take a week or two off.

At the moment, he was sat at the bar, working on some (purposefully) watered-down ale. This made the fifth day that Aiden had not shown, and the itch was only getting worse. Lambert distracted himself by chatting with the innkeeper; absent chat about the winter at Kaer Morhen, who got married in the months they'd been away, so on. It was easy enough conversation, and it felt good to be able to have an atmosphere like this - an inn where he could enter and not be spat at, have a decent meal and some damn fine ale.

Privately, he liked to think to himself that even this small corner of the world having a more positive outlook on Witchers was better than nothing. Which it was. After many years of wary glances.

He found his gaze darting over to the door as it opened, but it was often just the older men of the village or some of the serving girls flitting in and out to prepare for that night. Despite himself, Lambert found himself disappointed every time the face wasn't Aiden's.

By the time the usual patrons started flowing in for dinner, he'd chalked that day up to another without his Cat. He'd switched to the full-strength ale as several of the villagers took up spaces next to him at the bar, and he found himself telling the same stories as the sun set. He even managed to get a few men drunk enough to get them to play a few rounds of Gwent, which led to many shocked faces as Lambert played them out of their best cards.

(He let them keep them, though. If he ran everyone in the town dry, he'd never have a worthy competitor when he was waiting for Aiden. He even gave them tips on how to build their decks more effectively, mostly met with drunken nods and the distinct feeling none of this would be remembered come morning.)

As many drinks in as he was, and with his nose clogged with the scent of sweat and ale, he didn't notice the door opening again. A few cheers rose from the patrons, and Lambert rolled his eyes affectionately as he tucked his deck away for the night. Once they got drunk enough, they would cheer for any new company for the night.

But then a hand gripped the back of his collar, and he was yanked out of his seat and dragged towards the stairs by his scruff. Shocked as he was, Lambert took a few moments to process who the fuck would **dare** drag a Witcher before realizing the men around him were laughing and whooping.

He felt a stupid grin stretch across his face as Aiden pulled him up the stairs. He twisted a bit, but Aiden's back was the only thing he could see, which was... different. Normally the Cat was a bit more civilized about this whole thing.

"Nice to see you too, kitt- ah!" Lambert yelped as the brunette slammed him against the wall of their room, kicking the door shut roughly as he instantly began to attack the Wolf's neck with open-mouthed kisses and nips. He groaned softly, tilting his head back, and Aiden lapped at his skin. He could feel a purr through Aiden's armor, bodies pressed flush.

"Fuckin' missed you," the Cat breathed, nimble fingers working at Lambert's clothes. "Got stuck in Ebbing. Fucking Niflgaard. Caravan hauled ass, still made me late." He practically tore Lambert's shirt off, teeth sinking into the crook of the Wolf's neck.

Lambert groaned again, threading his fingers through Aiden's hair and tugging roughly. "Missed you too, kitten. Long-ass winter without you."

Aiden finally lifted his head, pressing their lips together in a kiss that was less lips and more teeth. Lambert hissed as the Cat bit down on his lower lip, easily drawing blood with his fucking fangs of teeth before the Cat pulled away, studying him with a satisfied look on his face.

Lambert could only imagine how he looked right now; shirt tossed across the room, pants half unlaced with a _very_ interested cock straining at them, skin flushed and lips already bruising. Aiden grinned at him; it was a feral little thing as he pulled Lambert closer by the laces of his pants. They crashed together again, Aiden guiding him towards the bed as Lambert ran his hands along the Cat's body.

He was shoved back harshly, landing with a soft _oomph_ on the bed. He propped himself up on his elbows as Aiden followed, straddling the Wolf's hips. He tugged Aiden closer by one of his belts, burying his nose in his hair and inhaling deeply. "This's gotta go."

Aiden rumbled with laughter, pulling back and working at his belts and armor. They were tossed off the bed without much care, except for his swords, which he carefully leaned against the wall. Lambert's hands roved over every inch of skin as it was exposed, mouthing at some of the scars on Aiden's chest as the Cat worked. His mouth - and teeth - latched on to a dusky nipple, and Aiden moaned above him.

Lambert grinned against his skin before Aiden pushed him back down again, making quick work of the rest of his clothes and tearing Lambert's trousers off. He knelt between the Wolf's legs, pressing kisses along his things and leaving love bites everywhere. He seemed determined to be a damn tease, though, as his lips merely ghosted over Lambert's cock before continuing along his thighs.

A whine built in Lambert's throat, hips bucking up as Aiden passed over his crotch again. The Cat pinned them to the bed with a soft laugh. "Need something, pup?"

"Please," Lambert whined, squirming under him. "Stop teasing, been too long. Need you."

A purr of satisfaction left the brunette, and without much else prompting he swallowed Lambert whole. He cried out, hips fighting against Aiden's hold as he remained there for several agonizing moments, just swallowing and humming softly. He pulled off, giving the length little kitten licks and a nip every now and again, and Lambert _keened._

"Missed you so much," Aiden murmured, panting softly as he nuzzled against Lambert's crotch. "Missed having you spread out in front of me like this, like the pretty little wolf you are. Gonna be good for me, pup?"

"Yes," Lambert breathed, tangling his fingers in Aiden's hair. "God, yes."

Aiden's grip on his hips tightened suddenly, and Lambert found himself on his hands and knees. The brunette shifted behind him, pressing kisses along his back and grinding softly against his ass. Another whine left the Wolf, and Aiden nipped him playfully. "Hush, my wolf. Gonna take care of you, just be patient."

The Cat worked his way down Lambert's back, mouthing over his numerous scars. By the time he reached his ass, Lambert was trembling with the effort to not flip back around and sink himself on Aiden's cock, but _oh_ was it worth the wait.

Aiden kneaded his ass thoroughly before lapping at his rim. Lambert gave a strangled noise, shifting his weight onto his elbows as his arms began to shake. The Cat teased him a while longer, licking and pressing his tongue against Lambert in the way he knew would unwind him, and Lambert was close to begging by the time Aiden finally thrust his tongue in.

He moaned, loud and long, throwing his head back as Aiden worked his muscles carefully. It wasn't long before a finger was easing in as well, and Lambert clenched instinctively around them.

Aiden drew back, crooking his finger _just right,_ and Lambert sobbed. "Please, please Aiden, _fuck me."_

"Well if you're going to ask so nicely," the Cat crooned. He leaned over the edge of the bed, finger thrusting in and out of Lambert at a leisurely pace. A second one joined it, oiled up; Aiden spread them, and Lambert's hips jerked, stuttering as his cock throbbed. He could feel the grin on the Cat's face as he pressed kisses into Lambert's shoulders.

A third finger wasn't far behind. There was a bit of a burn, but Lambert didn't mind; he sometimes found himself craving it, really. The way Aiden looked when he went a little feral, the roughness as he positively claimed his Wolf. Tonight would be no different, and Lambert was at his mercy.

Aiden withdrew his fingers all too soon, and Lambert groaned at the loss before feeling the head of the Cat's cock press against his ass. Aiden was practically draped over him, his mouth near Lambert's ear as he whispered, "Ready, pup?"

Lambert whined in response, and Aiden pushed in. It wasn't one quick jerk of his hips, but he didn't laze around with it, and it was _perfect._ They groaned in unison as Aiden bottomed out, remaining there for a moment before Aiden began to move his hips.

He was slow at first, more to work Lambert open and unravel him that last little bit. He found his hips bucking back to meet Aiden's, and with a soft growl the Cat bit down on his shoulder again, hips quickly picking up the pace.

Lambert's hand found Aiden's, and he squeezed it like his life depended on it. He tilted his head slightly, and Aiden captured his lips in a rough kiss. His arms wrapped around the Wolf's waist, and then he sat back, bringing Lambert with him.

He gasped at the new position, throwing his head back onto Aiden's shoulder as the Cat's hips jerked up to meet his. There would be time for lovemaking later; right now, Aiden was determined to claim as much of Lambert as humanely possible.

One arm remained wrapped around Lambert's waist, lifting him and dropping him back on his cock every now and again, while his free hand flicked and twisted one of the Wolf's nipples. Lambert was a mess of gasps and groans and half-words, gripping on to Aiden's arm. His nails dug into the Cat's skin, drawing a small amount of blood, and Aiden growled again, hips snapping up, and Lambert saw _stars._

"Not gonna- Fuck- not gonna last much longer," Lambert gasped out. Aiden groaned against his skin, hand leaving Lambert's abused nipples to jerk him off. A series of high-pitched whines left the Wolf, pressing his eyes shut as his orgasm hit. Aiden thrust up into him a few more times before he followed, and Lambert groaned softly as warmth spread through him.

Aiden lapped at his shoulder and neck as they came down from their highs, and Lambert reached back, threading a hand in the Cat's hair with a hum. They had a lot of catching up to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed a break from the angst. Have some shameless smut!
> 
> Let me know if you find any mistakes <3


	4. Buried Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes a mistake.
> 
> Warnings: Buried alive, suffocation, self-reflection, self-hate.

Jaskier was fairly certain this was how he died.

He'd been caught on a spying mission, having charmed his way into some lordling's court (and his bed) to gather information on whether or not he was actually a traitor to the king as the rumors had whispered. He'd gotten so distracted looking through reports that he hadn't noticed the lord had not, in fact, downed as much of the sleeping tonic as Jaskier had believed, only startling out of his concentration when a sword pressed against his throat.

In his defense, he would blame the distraction and slip-up on his recent argument with Geralt. Several days without fresh food and with bitter rain had left them snapping at each other, with Geralt taking Roach to deal with several contracts and Jaskier taking up this mission. It had taken a total of three hours for the bard to regret the argument, but Geralt was far out of reach and he couldn't just back out on the mission now.

Though at the moment he was wishing he had.

The lord had handed him off to some mercenaries - proof of his treason, if Jaskier could ever get out of this - and they'd promptly restrained him from head to toe after stripping him down to his trousers. They'd found a few weapons hidden on him, which was unfortunate and led to a black eye and broken nose, but aside from their roughness in tying the ropes around him, they didn't torture him as he expected. It seemed the lord just wanted the spies to disappear, regardless of if they could be linked back to him. Bastard probably already had a story in the works about Jaskier going down to a local tavern and never returning, and would have witnesses corroborate his story with a hefty sum paid off under the table.

Once satisfied that he couldn't move aside from vague wriggling, he was thrown over one of the mercenaries' shoulders and taken out of the keep. With his vision swimming and blood rushing to his head, he was struggling to keep track of where they were; his best guess was somewhere in the woods to the south of the estate. They certainly walked for a while, which was somewhat unexpected; he would have assumed they would have taken horses for such a distance, but the reasoning suddenly became clear when he spotted a farmer already at work on his field as the sky began to lighten. The group was just close enough to the treeline that, even though the farmer paused to study them, he clearly recognized them, as he turned away instead of trying to interfere.

They walked a while longer than that, taking twisting paths through the foliage until the forest turned into swampy marshland. Finally, though, as the sun broke above the horizon, he was unceremoniously slung to the ground. He fell further than he was expecting, and once he could focus, he realized why.

He was in a hole. And the mercenaries were grabbing shovels.

A strained yell left him, muffled by the cloth shoved halfway down his throat. Jaskier began to struggle, splashing in the inch of murky water that had pooled at the bottom of the hole and getting mud all over himself. The only thing that earned him was a snarl of annoyance from the mercenaries as the first of the dirt-mud was slung down at his body.

Jaskier's struggling kept it from covering him for a while, but the dirt began to pile around him, soaking into the water and creating a disgusting slop of a mess that clumped on the bard's skin and left him shivering. A thin layer began to form on top of him, and it could only be shaken loose so far before the small piles around him began to build.

A mumbled order had the mercenaries working faster, some of them cursing under their breaths. Jaskier could only wail as the layer on top of him grew thicker and steadily heavier; he managed to keep his head clear for a while, as they'd seemed to be prolonging this before the order by covering his legs, but after a certain point he had to press his eyes shut against the muddy dirt. 

With the cold water and slop around him, his energy had drained quickly; by the time he had two inches of dirt over most of his body, he was heaving for breath, partly out of panic and partly from exertion. 

This was how he died. Buried alive in some disgusting swamp because he couldn't stop worrying about his stupid Witcher for two fucking seconds.

A sob escaped him, earning some snorts from the men above. One of them shoved a larger pile of dirt down, coming to rest on Jaskier's chest, and the panic only worsened as it got that much harder to breathe. He wasn't sure if a few tears slipped past or not; if they did, they were absorbed by the dirt faster than he could register them.

He made the mistake of inhaling through his nose a few times, clogging it with dirt and making him choke. Instead, he focused on the small amount of air he could manage through his gag; the dirt was still loose enough by his head that he could half a breath in if he was careful.

He wondered what his father would think, first receiving the news that his fuckup of a son had gone missing and then later was presumed dead. He wondered if the old man would care; Jaskier had returned to his home estate a few times before, when he knew his father wasn't there, mostly to visit his mother, but he had exchanged letters with the man during the winter when he took up his job of teaching for the bitter months. He'd always been obviously displeased with Jaskier's career choice, and clearly would have preferred his eldest son to remain at the estate and learn how to be a proper lord.

His mother had always been more encouraging, and after telling her about a situation with Geralt where he most certainly should have died, he'd found out why. His mother had been Fae, lending to Jaskier's youthfulness and relatively higher disease immunity. It had come as a shock to the Wolf when Jaskier had told him, but Geralt had admitted in the end he was grateful for it; for as rocky as their relationship had begun, he'd come to view the bard as a dear friend.

(Jaskier had come to view him as more, though he'd never dared to utter those words to anyone. Those words, dear heart, were carefully locked away, whispered to the wind on moonless nights when they threatened to burst out.)

His mother had always been a lover of the arts. She played wonderful piano, and had been the reason Jaskier had been so inspired to become a bard. Her music had always enchanted him, and at eighteen he could only have dreamed of crafting something similar.

And then he'd met Geralt.

Another sob left him as the weight on his chest increased. He could survive a little longer on his magic, stifled as it was from exhaustion and the fact that it was more useful for protecting him from disease and aging than being something he could ever manifest in a tangible way. But once his magic ran out, he would have nothing; he would suffocate and his body would deteriorate quickly in the swamp. By the time anyone found any trace of him, he would be unrecognizable, what with anything that could survive when he did not having been stripped away from him.

Finally, he felt no more vibrations of dirt being poured onto him, and Jaskier realized in the back of his mind that he was well and truly buried. He was freezing, fingers and toes already numb from both cold and the tightness of his bonds. If he somehow managed to get out of this, he wondered if he'd lose a few.

He would have scoffed at the thought if he could. Geralt was days away at least, and even if he'd been on his way back to fetch Jaskier he'd be too late. His scent would have been hidden by the mercenaries' and any trace of his presence would have been erased - clothes burned, but perhaps with his lute or family ring left as some red-herring clue for the Wolf. By the time he found Jaskier, if ever, the bard would be long dead.

Jaskier had given up hope the moment he was thrown into this insufferable hole, if he was being truly honest. With few ways to trace where his body was, the mercenaries had left themselves no cleanup and no link to him. Sure, there was the farmer who had spotted them, but unless they found Jaskier's body none of the mercenaries could be convicted. Perhaps for other crimes, but not for burying Jaskier alive.

His lungs were burning, and his thoughts were becoming scattered, fading with him in and out of consciousness. He managed to hold on to one, though:

_I'm sorry, Geralt. I love you._

How he wished he could utter the words to the man, hear his voice and see his smile and feel his warmth one more time. But their final meeting would be that damned argument over the most stupid and selfish reasons, and Jaskier would die here: in the muddy, freezing ground, alone.

Perhaps as he always had been. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter without any spoken dialogue, which was a change of pace for me but not an unwelcome one. Thank my girlfriend for the ambiguous ending :)
> 
> Let me know if you find any mistakes! Even if you don't, leaving a comment if you enjoyed means a lot to me. I'm doing my best to do one of these a day, but comments are always a welcome motivation <3


	5. Escape/Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel gets free. He's found not long after.
> 
> Warnings: Broken bones, brief description of self-mutilation to escape, hurt and comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of part two to the Eskel story in the first chapter. Those events are referenced vaguely, but if you've forgotten please keep in mind that there was heavy non-con and abuse in that chapter.

The fall breaks Eskel's leg. He knows he's lucky it wasn't his neck.

He lays there for a while, panting and staring at the sky. They had been careless; it had passed in a blur. All he knew was that suddenly his hands could move and he casted the weakest Axii ever, just long enough to get his legs free before dislocating one of his shoulders and strangling them.

He'd promptly broken his hands to slip them from the cuffs and stumbled out, pain flaring all over his body. How he'd found the strength to climb two flights of stairs to the exit - and have the faint sense of mind to grab a cloak thrown across a table - he would never know.

Eskel hadn't taken the time to look around. He'd simply ran, subconsciously taking in various markings to make his way back - or to tell someone else how to get back. They probably still had his swords and amour and materials somewhere, if they hadn't sold all of it right away, but without knowing who the bastards were and if they had company, his priority had been to _get out_.

He'd heard horses about an hour after beginning his stumbling journey through the woods. His heart had lurched, and he'd forced himself to move faster despite everything in his body telling him to rest. A sudden drop-off had drawn a yelp from his scratchy throat; the fall wasn't completely vertical, but the slope was steep enough that it didn't make much of a difference.

And now here he lay, horses long forgotten. Eskel doesn't dare look at his leg - he's willed himself to numb it out, as with most of the injuries they'd given him, but he has the distinct feeling the bone has pierced his skin and is now jutting out.

He spaces out for a while; when he comes back, the sun is nearing the horizon. He rolls his head to one side, trying to take stock of his body. He could maybe manage dragging himself into a sitting position - better than laying there, at least - but he had no other way to get around. With his broken hands and dislocated shoulder, there was no hope of trying to get the bone back into place on his own. He could maybe pop his shoulder back into place, but he would likely pass out before or directly after doing so.

Eskel presses his eyes shut. He shifts his good arm, taking care to keep his hand steady, and flexes it. Then he tests his unbroken leg. Bone-deep exhaustion pounds at him, but he thinks he can sit up. Try to figure out where he is.

Hope someone finds him before he dies.

He squirms around carefully until he can bite down on a wad of the cloak. His jaw is already tensing in anticipation. There's a rock near his functioning arm; he carefully drapes his arm over it, praying to whatever fucking god that might be looking down on him in amusement or pity that he can hold on.

He gives himself until the count of three, then tries to sit up.

Eskel _screams_.

By the time the pain has faded enough for him to think coherently, he realizes he's nearly sobbing. He's too dehydrated to cry truly, which honestly only makes the ugly sounds that much worse. His hand is- he doesn't want to think about it. But the thought slips in there: if he makes it out of this alive, he'd be lucky to have enough mobility in them to cast Signs, one of his biggest strengths.

He closes his eyes again, and this time the darkness claims him.

-

Eskel inhales sharply as he stirs, eyes flashing open. He can hear horses.

Two, from the sounds of it. Smaller than what he'd heard before - maybe? He can't tell anymore, the earlier situation had been clouded by panic and the overwhelming need to _run_ \- but that doesn't quite make him feel any better.

Even with rest, though, he knows his body won't work for him. He's as good as dead meat.

The horses get closer, and he faintly hears voices over the rushing in his ears. Then a voice, a lovely tenor, cries out, "There!"

He turns his head away, closing his eyes as the horses thunder over to him. With his nose caked with dried blood, he doesn't smell them, but he hears them dismount and rush over and-

And the frantic way they call his name.

He dares to open his eyes and something inside of him breaks when he sees Geralt sprinting full-speed towards him. Jaskier isn't far behind; he stumbles when he sees Eskel fully, however, gagging. "Oh sweet Melitele-"

" _Eskel_ ," Geralt breathed, falling to his knees beside the noirette. Horrified eyes traveled over his ruined body, over the cloak that was just barely covering him. And Eskel feels those pitiful sobs begin again.

"Jaskier," the White Wolf calls, gaze turning clinical. "Medical kit. We need to stabilize as much of this as possible before we can even think of moving him."

The bard nods shakily, hurrying back to the horses. Eskel realizes faintly that along with Roach, Scorpion is there; the stallion nickers in his direction, ears flickered back as Jaskier shuffles through the bags. His gaze drifts back to Geralt as his brother murmurs to him, "It will probably be easier if you're asleep. We'll take care of the worst of them. When you wake up we can figure out what else we need to tend to."

Eskel doesn't quite manage a nod, more a slight dip of his chin. A warm hand rests on his forehead, and he falls asleep with Geralt's whisper in his ears.

-

A fire is crackling somewhere nearby when he stirs again. Eskel's eyes slid open lazily; it's nighttime, though if it's the same day - unlikely - or later, he doesn't know.

The next thing he realizes is that his head is resting on someone's lap, thin, delicate fingers brushing carefully though his hair and a faint hum reaching his ears. He tilts his head back a tiny bit, and Jaskier startles a bit, hand stilling while looking down at him. A smile blooms across his face, and softly, he says, "Hello there, sweet wolf."

Eskel makes a noise in response, closing his eyes as Jaskier's hand returns to its previous movements. "Geralt is out hunting. He took care of the worst of the wounds; set your leg and hands, and he put your shoulder back into joint." The bard makes a face. "I'll never understand him. Even after so long with him, I get squeamish at things like that. Ah... then again, I've never seen him so-..."

"Broken," Eskel whispered. He knew he couldn't manage much more, and Jaskier smiled sadly down at him before grabbing a water skin. "Here. Little bits, you know how this works."

He sips at the water, coughing now and again as his throat seizes. Jaskier is patient through it all, keeping a careful eye on his face to know when to pull back or give a little more. He finally sets the skin aside, brushing a soft hand down Eskel's face. "Geralt got a message from one of the Cats. The alderman you met with had the decency to put out a notice that a Witcher had likely died during a contract, and the Cats figured out it was a Wolf. We found Scorpion the next day, and we've been trying to follow your trail since then. Stumbled across a group of riders. Didn't take long to figure out they were looking for you." Jaskier winced. "Geralt took care of them."

Eskel closed his eyes, a slow, soft breath leaving his lips. He was safe. He was with his brother and his bard. They would protect him as they always had.

Perhaps from the physical dangers, he reflected, but it wouldn't be so easy for the mental and emotional wounds.

He must have dozed off again, because the deliberately loud footsteps signaling Geralt's approach startled him back into wakefulness. He blinked a few times; Jaskier hadn't moved from his position of cradling Eskel's head, murmuring a soft greeting to Geralt as the Wolf entered the clearing. He'd managed a fairly large buck, now hoisted over his shoulders; he set it down with a faint grunt, brushing his hands off on his muddy and bloody trousers as he moved over. "How are you feeling?"

Eskel made a vague expression he hoped conveyed his 'are you serious' thought process, and Geralt smiled weakly. For as miraculous as Witcher healing was, there was just _so much_ for Eskel's body to try and repair all at once. Surviving would not be an issue, not now that they had found him, but there was a difference in surviving the night and surviving with these injuries for the rest of his life.

"Stop that," Jaskier whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "I can practically hear you thinking. We'll take it one day at a time, dear heart. And we will be here by your side, no matter how long it takes."

Eskel's eyes begin to burn, and he feels a small, solitary tear slip from the corner of his eye. The bard brushes it away with soft fingers, and the part of Eskel hoping this wasn't just a dream finally fades away.

He breaks again, soft sobs floating into the air. Geralt sits next to them, carefully pulling Eskel into a sitting position and into his lap. The noirette manages to wrap one arm around Geralt's shoulders as his own shook, as his breaths hitched. A hand rubbed his back, another smoothing through his hair, and it gives him hope.

He may be broken, but he had people that loved him enough to make him whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker. I had to give him at least some comfort.
> 
> Let me know if you see any errors! I mostly write these and do minimal editing. I also write these in a separate website that doesn't allow for italics, so if you see any words surrounded by ** let me know, I tend to miss a few!
> 
> Comments are always welcome. Sorry for the absence; school and work have been kicking my butt, but I'm back! And the next drabble should be up within a day or so, now that I've the proper motivation again!


	6. "Please"/Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Viscount de Lettenhove, Jaskier is expected to marry.
> 
> It's far from what he wants.
> 
> Warnings: Non-explicit rape/non-con, abuse (physical and emotional), death threats, blackmail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the undercover-at-Lettenhove AU by spielzeugkaiser on Tumblr.

The wedding passes in a blur. Geralt's more focused on trying not to let his heart rip in two.

(It's long past that point.)

Jaskier manages to flit away from his new husband long enough to take the Witcher aside, squeezing his hands and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. It's a risk; anyone could see them, but the viscount knew he needed a respite, no matter how small. "A few hours, dear heart. Then we'll return to the estate."

Geralt looks away at that. They'd discussed this the night before, how Jaskier's new husband would probably lay claim over him that night as soon as they were alone.

How Jaskier had asked him to give him something else to think about while it happened.

"Geralt," the viscount says softly, "we can't avoid this-"

"I know," he murmurs, sighing softly. He presses their foreheads together briefly, one of the few more intimate touches Jaskier allows him. "That doesn't mean I have to be happy with it."

His gaze lands on the Wolf medallion proudly displayed over Jaskier's wedding furs. Jaskier glances down at it as well, tracing the pattern delicately. "If I could have seen where things would have ended up all those months ago, you know I never would have forced you-"

Geralt shakes his head, silencing the brunette. "You had every right. I- I played with your heart, Jaskier. That's one of the most dangerous things a person can do. You didn't have to take us in."

"I would never abandon Ciri to those dogs," Jaskier muttered, looking away with a flash of anger. "I would have given you both a sanctuary no matter what. What isn't right is what I did to you, how I-"

"Stop," Geralt whispered. "Now is not the time for... All of this. We need to return."

Pain flashes in the viscount's eyes, but he takes a breath to gather himself, expression falling back into that of a content new groom. Chin held high, Julian leads the way back to their guests, and as he shadows them the rest of the evening, Geralt's heart crumbles a little more every time Julian's new husband touches him, no matter how brief it is.

The touches linger more as the day fades into night. Riding alongside the carriage on the way back to Lettenhove, he hears Julian's soft 'wait until we're home, dear' and he nearly snaps his reins in half.

He gets an amused once-over when he follows them into Julian's bedchambers. "Don't mind him," the viscount hums, even as Geralt moves to help him take off his furs. "Just a guard. Quite a loyal hound, but a beast nonetheless."

"Oh, I don't mind." The man waves a hand at Geralt as he steps closer to Julian, pushing the fur cloak from his shoulders. Geralt takes a step back, trying to keep his breathing even as the man attacks Julian's neck with bites and harsh sucks. He sees the way Julian bites his lip for a moment before the man lifts his head, pulling the brunette closer by the hips as he pressed their lips together.

The man pushes Julian backwards, slamming him against the wall next to Geralt and grinding against him. Julian gives a small whine, one that Geralt knows is just to appease his new husband as the man mouths along his jaw.

"Poor thing. Did you think I would care?" Geralt hears Julian's heart skip a beat. "I don't care how loud your dog barks. If he bites, I'll put him down myself."

Julian lets out a shaky breath. The back of his hand brushes against Geralt's, just for a moment, and his voice is heartbreakingly quiet as he murmurs, "Leave us."

His jaw tenses. "Julian-"

"Now." He lifts his gaze to meet the silent 'please' in those blue eyes, and he turns, heading for the door. "I'll be in the hall."

The door and wall between them does little to muffle the noises. He hears the moment the man nearly tosses Julian on the bed, the little care he gives to ensure Julian is properly prepared. The stifled whimper as the man takes him. The soft clink of the chain on his medallion as Julian likely clings to it for dear life. The quiet yelp and smack and the man's hissed words.

"You think I'm stupid? I'm well aware of how fond you are of that dog. If you do anything, _anything_ to displease me, I will have him skinned alive. A wolf's pelt would look nice, don't you think?"

He's shaking from the force it takes to keep himself still. Julian's heart rate spikes again as he hears the snap of a chain, the thump as his medallion is thrown into the hearth. "No- please- Take it out, please, I'll do what you want-"

"You'll do it anyways," the man snarls. He hears Julian gagging, hears him clawing at the man's wrist, and smells the salt of his tears. "You'll stand around and look nice. You'll smile and be pleasant during the day to everyone. And at night, you will comply like the little whore you are."

Julian gasps and coughs as the man groans lowly. There's rustling as the man pulls out and gets comfortable. He can practically picture Julian staying as far away from him on the bed as possible, shivering and fighting back sobs.

It takes Geralt several agonizing moments to realize he's crying, too.

He manages half an hour before he feels safe enough that the man's snores are genuine before slipping back into the room. Jaskier is sitting on the edge of the bed, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as tears slip down his face. Geralt kneels before him, cupping his cheeks, and startled blue eyes meet his, glancing over at the man snoring away.

"He's asleep," Geralt whispers, pulling Jaskier closer and hugging him. The viscount is shaking against him, but manages to croak out, "The medallion..."

Geralt's gaze shifts over to the hearth. He moves over silently, spotting the pendant among the coals. The metal is hot, but not enough to prevent him from grabbing it. It's scorched, black marks somewhat covering the wolf's head, but he brings it back to Jaskier. The brunette cups his hands around Geralt's, a soft sob leaving him. "I'm sorry- I didn't think he would take it-"

Geralt shushes him carefully. He shifts, scooping Jaskier into his arms and slipping into the hall towards his own room and the bathing chambers connected to them. He'll have to make sure Jaskier is back before anyone else wakes, but for at least a few hours he can provide this comfort.

He sets Jaskier on his bed, pulling several more blankets around him as he draws a bath. He heats it quickly with Igni; it takes around five minutes total, and when he returns Jaskier has stopped shivering quite as much.

Geralt picks him up again, this time without any coverings, and eases him into the bath. Jaskier whimpers softly, pressing his face into Geralt's chest and gripping at his armor until he's fully settled in. Geralt steps away, removing most of his layers until he's left with his undershirt, trousers and smallclothes, but Jaskier whispers, "Be in here. With me. Please."

He hesitates, but ultimately strips down the rest of the way and eases himself in behind Jaskier, pulling the viscount close to him. They stay like that for a long while, Geralt occasionally heating up the water again carefully, before Jaskier turns his head just enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of Geralt's mouth. "What did you hear?"

"Everything," Geralt admitted. There would be no use lying, not about this, and Jaskier sighed softly, closing his eyes. "Then we have to change how we play things, at least long enough for it to not seem suspicious when he passes."

"And how long will that be?"

"I don't know, Geralt," Jaskier whispered. "He's a smart man. Has to be, for his position. We can't do anything for the next few months... I suspect if he becomes suspicious of anything being poisoned, he would simply have you sample it, and he knows I can't put you through that."

"If that's what has to be done-"

"No," Jaskier said firmly, squeezing his hand. "I lived through the nightmare of seeing you like that once. I'm not doing it again."

They sit in silence for a while longer before Geralt murmurs, "Did he even let you finish?"

"It doesn't matter, Geralt."

"It does to me."

Jaskier shook his head. "No. But... Don't. I just... Want to stay like this for a while, dear heart."

Geralt holds him close and tries not to focus on the fact that interactions like these will become impossible soon enough.

He'll cherish them while he still can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you find any errors. A bit shorter, and a bit deviating from the source material, but this idea has been stuck in my head for a few days now.


	7. Carrying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt should have died.
> 
> He doesn't.
> 
> Warnings: Temporary character death, vague mentions of how character died, unforgiving powerful murderous being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a different turn than expected originally. Ah, well.

Geralt should have died. He knows this very well; there were too many people for him to take on alone, too many sharp edges to avoid or block. He knows they struck his chest; he wonders if it was arrows or something else.

For a few moments, he thinks he _is_ actually dead. He sees _something_ that disappears soon after; later, he might recall seeing his old instructors, perhaps Renfri or Leo.

He's surrounded in darkness for a long time. The first thing that returns to him is the faint crunching of boots through autumn leaves. There's a faint heartbeat, as well, and the occasional whistle of a breeze. Everything else is quite numb; he has the vague sense his hair is brushing across his face, and that he's hanging limp in someone's arms, but he can't get his limbs to move or his eyes to open.

It doesn't matter, in the end; an all-too-familiar voice hits his ears. "Be patient, dear wolf. Bringing someone back from the edge of death takes time."

His heart, already jumpy, leaps at O'Dimm's voice. It was far from the person he had expected, especially considering how furious he'd been the last time they parted. The man says nothing more, though his footsteps stop and he must set Geralt down, because he can hear a soft sigh leave the merchant's mouth as he straightens and observes the Witcher.

"Had you been anyone else, I would have left you to your fate. Perhaps snuck in to steal your soul, but you would be dead all the same."

A burst of sensations sends Geralt's nerves tingling to life, and he gasps in shock and pain. He can't quite move anything, still, but he can feel everything again; the breeze blowing his hair out of its band, the cold ground beneath him and the rough bark at his back. With every breath, he can also feel stabs of pain through his chest. A hand carefully rests over his heart, and the tingling subsides, leaving his entire body aching.

He finds the strength to open his eyes a few minutes later, blinking to clear his vision. O'Dimm is crouched before him, a faint frown on his face that disappears when golden eyes meet his. O'Dimm smiles instead. "Welcome back."

Geralt lets his head loll to one side, groaning softly and unwilling to face O'Dimm at the moment. His head is pounding, and he's not entirely sure his voice will work yet. The pain is easing throughout most of his body, but the wounds on his chest - what he can only assume were the fatal blows - still flare in pain as he breathes and shifts.

O'Dimm leaves him there for a few more minutes, going through the surprisingly human motions of gathering wood and starting a fire. Geralt squints at him in confusion, and O'Dimm smiles faintly.

"Even my powers have limits, Geralt. Most of my energy is focused on repairing your body and restoring you to your pre-death state. The more energy I conserve by doing things as simple as building a fire manually, the quicker you can return to inciting angry mobs."

Geralt gave a faint grunt of protest, and O'Dimm tsks. "That's what happened, when it comes down to it. Though unfortunately for you, it was merely your presence that sparked the mob. A previous Witcher did the damage, and you had to suffer the consequences."

He tends to the fire as Geralt slowly tests his movement, eager to regain his mobility for whatever the merchant has in mind for him. His hands ache a bit as he clenches them, flexing his fingers, but they're fully mobile. He bends his legs slowly until he crosses them, moving into a proper sitting position so he's not just slumped against the tree.

He brings a hand up, rubbing at his eyes before O'Dimm pulls it away by the wrist. "Leave them be for now. Eyes are delicate. You received a wooden stake to your right eye before I stepped in. Your vision will be subpar for several days, and you may have a bit of a blind spot, but it will heal."

Geralt grunted at him again, swatting his hand away and rubbing his temples instead. When he opens his eyes again, O'Dimm has a broth cooking over the fire, and Geralt eyes him dubiously.

"Why?"

O'Dimm doesn't even look at him. "As I said, you're quite special, Geralt. Had you been anyone else-"

"I know. So what do you want from me now?"

O'Dimm turns to face him, tilting his head slightly. "Nothing, at the moment."

Geralt blinks at him blankly. "What?"

"I have no favors I require of you at this time, and I assure you, your soul is still very much yours. I would not have taken it without your willing consent to what I did. That is not how I do things, regardless of what some may say."

O'Dimm's eyes darken slightly, flickers of that unearthly gold pulsing through them, and Geralt's mind flashes back to Olgierd and the deal he'd made to save the man. He swallows, hard. "Last we met, we didn't exactly leave off in favorable conditions."

"A moment of rage, on my part." O'Dimm waves a hand dismissively. "Misguided, ultimately. Olgierd had been in my sights for many years, so losing him to my own foolishness was... Upsetting."

"You played a game. You lost."

"Quite so, and I don't believe I ever congratulated you for your success." O'Dimm's pleasant demeanor is back, and he hands Geralt a bowl of broth. He scoffs when the Witcher eyes it warily. "I'm not going to save your life just to poison you. Eat. I need a bit of time before I can finish the finer aspects of your healing, anyways."

Geralt reluctantly follows the order. The broth is simple, another way for O'Dimm to reassure him nothing had been added to spike it, and he eats in silence while the merchant relaxes, leaning against a tree with arms crossed and staring back the way they came.

Geralt's almost finished with the bowl when light explodes in the distance. He makes the mistake of trying to get to his feet; O'Dimm is by his side in an instant, easing him back down with a faint hum.

"What the fuck did you do?" Geralt feels his chest tighten when he realizes what the light is - flames. Coming from the town that O'Dimm had saved him from.

"Dear wolf," O'Dimm tsked, shaking his head. "You didn't think I'd let them off without a warning, did you?"

"But- The entire village- O'Dimm, there are innocents there!"

"And if they're determined enough, they will survive." O'Dimm turned to observe his chaos, and screams reached them on the wind. His eyes were shining with gold again. "I always give people a way out, Geralt."

The Witcher simply stared at him in horror. This man, this creature, was now something he once more had a debt to pay back to, even if O'Dimm didn't require anything from him at the moment.

After a few moments, O'Dimm begins humming. It's a familiar tune, one he heard some village children singing before he met up with O'Dimm after the shipwreck. A song about Master Mirror himself.

Of course O'Dimm would know it. And approve of it. And _hum it._

Figures race across the flames, specks of darkness as people flee the village. As weak as he still is, Geralt can't simply get up and try to help; he can hardly stand, let alone run into flames to save the innocents that had looked on with pity as the mob had formed around him.

"Remember this well, Geralt," O'Dimm murmured, not turning to look at the Wolf. "I don't take kindly to losing that which interests me."

Geralt simply blinks, and the merchant is gone. The fire before him has blown out, and the remaining broth in his bowl has turned to ash.

He can't find it in himself to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit on the shorter side, more of a look into Gaunter's character. The concept of him returning after Geralt 'banishes' him in HoS will return.
> 
> Let me know if you find any mistakes, or leave a comment if you enjoyed!


	8. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aiden's search for one of his brothers goes horribly wrong.
> 
> Warnings: Kidnapping, drugging, near-drowning, mutations, torture (skinning, breaking bones, implied rape, implied dubcon, branding), murder, gore, recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this ended up a lot longer because I combined a lot of prompts into one. Let me just sum up the warnings: If you know Kiyan's backstory, you know part of what's coming. Lots of pain.

He feels sluggish as he wakes. His jaw clenches on instinct as soreness radiates through his body, only to find a wad of cloth shoved between his teeth.

His vision is swimming; the low light certainly doesn't help. He's outside, he knows that much at least; a fire crackles nearby and he can hear some owls in the distance. He can hear voices, too, but he can't quite make out what they're saying.

When he comes to a bit more, he registers that he's on his side and rendered immobile by his bindings. At most, he could wiggle around, but the chains - fucking _chains_ \- are wound too tight around his body to have any hope of breaking free. Brilliant.

Aiden sighed slowly through his nose, closing his eyes to thwart off the pounding headache he can feel building behind his skull. Three months ago, the Caravan had received news that Kiyan might be alive somewhere. It had taken a while longer to figure out the group that had taken him; what the sorcerer had intended, and where the experiments were being taken from there. He'd been in a tavern, trying to get a man drunk enough to spill where the group would be, and he'd been so single-minded in his focus to find Kiyan that he hadn't thought to check the drink someone else set down before him.

He remembered the alarm, and he remembered almost making it to his room, voice and tongue refusing to work with him. Lambert had been with him the whole time, though he was sleeping off an injury from a previous contract. He'd warned Aiden to be on his guard, to not do this alone, and as someone grabbed the back of his collar and slammed his face into the floor, Aiden dimly reflected that his dear Wolf had been quite right.

Thinking back on what he could have or should have done would do nothing for him now. He had to figure out where he was, where they were going, and if he was lucky, find Kiyan and get both of them out of there before they could break him too much.

He tried not to move much as he heard footsteps approaching. A man grunted softly as he crouched before the young Cat, studying him for a few moments. "You always loved to stick your nose where it didn't belong, did you?"

Aiden can't help it; his eyes flash open, meeting the sickly green-yellow of Jad Karadin's. He snorts out a breath through his nose, clogged as it is, fury coursing through him. The Cat had been known to partake in some more shady business, things even the Cats who took assassin contracts tended to steer clear of. Until now, there had never been any real proof that he was behind Kiyan's disappearance, but the facts had pointed to him: he'd been known to work with the sorcerer who was so interested in the Cat, and he wasn't opposed to selling out his own school for some extra profit.

Karadin smiled at him, patting his cheek. Aiden snarled lowly, jerking his head away from the touch, but Karadin's hand caught his hair and pulled him up uncomfortably. The younger Cat gave a hiss, wriggling in his bindings, but he couldn't do anything. His hands were bound nearly to the point of cutting off circulation, eliminating any help from his Signs, and half-drugged as he still was, he had little hope of fighting Karadin and whoever else he was working with.

"Come now," Karadin purred, grip tightening in Aiden's hair. "Wouldn't want to damage that pretty face of yours anymore than necessary."

Disgust roiled in Aiden's gut. Alongside his shady business endeavors, Karadin was well-known for his advances on the younger Cats, Aiden and Kiyan included. Most didn't know any better, only finding regret after he'd brought them to bed. Aiden had been fortunate enough to be warned prior to meeting the Witcher; he was sadistic and cared only for his own pleasure, often rendering the other helpless while he took what he wanted. 

A hand again rested on his cheek, tracing a faint scar below Aiden's left eye. Karadin's eerie smile never left his face. "I've heard you've been asking around about sweet Kiyan. Figured if you were so desperate to see him, I could bring you to him myself."

Aiden snarled lowly again, and Karadin released him. The brunette hissed as his head bounced against a rock, leaving him dazed again as Karadin stood. "As much as I'd like to have some fun, it must wait. We have much ground to cover. But once we reach our destination, well." Karadin's teeth flashed in the firelight as he grinned. "I'll have as much time as I want with you."

-

Try as he might, Aiden was struggling to keep track of their location and how long it had been since his capture. The water they gave him was drugged more often than not, and they rarely gave him more than a few scraps of food. He had some moments of clarity, mostly slumped on the back of a horse with Karadin's arms around him - sometimes on him, if the Witcher couldn't resist - or once more on his side as they took a break for the night. They passed through no towns, and they were staying off of any main roads.

They reached a river at some point. His captors took the chance to bathe themselves, snarking at one another and leering at him when they passed by. Karadin remained with the horses, looking them over and checking their supplies as well as a map. He caught Aiden looking at him and smirked, folding the map and placing it back in his saddlebag before approaching. "You should stop concerning yourself with where we are, kitten. It won't matter to you much longer."

Karadin's hand shot out, grabbing Aiden by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The brunette gave a grunt of surprise, squirming in his grasp as Karadin dragged him to the river. The other men stopped to watch, grinning and laughing as Aiden realized what Karadin intended to do. He tried to dig his heels into the ground, but they were on smooth rock; he merely flailed helplessly as Karadin heaved him into the river.

A strangled shout left Aiden as he crashed into the water, his shoulder jarring against a stone on the way in. The chains pulled him to the bottom; the river wasn't exactly deep, around waist-high, but it was enough for him to panic.

And drown.

Water seeped into his mouth, still forced open by the gag, and despite everything that had ever been drilled into him, Aiden began to panic. He jerked at his restraints, trying to right himself, but it was little use. Without proper food and with the drugs still sinking into his system, he likely couldn't have gotten out if it was merely rope binding him. But heavy iron chains? He was dead. Karadin would watch him drown and just stand to the side and laugh at him, at his raw panic.

Black spots were darkening Aiden's vision when a hand wrapped around his bicep and pulled him out. Another ripped the gag from his mouth, and he began a torturous mix of gasping and coughing, dry heaving as he was dragged back to the shore of the river. He was tossed to the ground, left to gasp and choke and sob while the men prepared to set off again.

Karadin knelt by him, clicking his tongue. "Afraid of drowning, hm? You really are pathetic, kitten."

Aiden didn't have the strength to even look at him.

-

He was unconscious when they arrived at their destination. He stirred in a cold, dark room, strapped down to a table not unlike those used for their mutations.

Aiden had to focus on his breathing for several moments to calm his heart as it began to race. His eyes adjusted slowly; on the bright side, it seemed that the drugs had been flushed from his system, leaving him a bit groggy and starving but back to himself. He took stock of the room he was in, stomach churning when he spotted various surgical instruments and torture weapons.

From what he had gathered, the original sorcerer had wanted to push how far a Witcher could last in various circumstances - mostly physical, with a study on the mental side. He'd vastly underestimated Kiyan, however, and earned himself a snapped neck and a feral Witcher on the loose.

Karadin's group must have tracked Kiyan down and captured him again not long after. They'd combed over the few stories of a Witcher who was quite obviously mad and rabid, but it had been a month at most before Kiyan was captured again.

Slowly, he became aware of the fact that he wasn't alone. A slow heartbeat reached his ears, calmer than his own, and the scent of blood hit him not long after. Aiden squirmed a bit in his bonds, twisting his head back until he could make out the figure hunched in the corner of the room.

Chains were attached at the wrists and ankles, though they were loose, allowing limited roaming of the room. The walls and floor around the figure were dark with blood, scratch marks clawing deep into the stone. The body hardly looked human anymore; broken bones healing wrong, huge chunks of skin missing all over his body. Claws where fingers and toes should have been, all on a skeletal frame with one dim golden eye staring right back at him.

"Kiyan," Aiden choked out, feeling his heart clench.

The Cat was sitting cross-legged, just studying his new companion. Anything that could potentially be used as a weapon was well out of his reach, even if he went to the very end of his tether. After a few moments, he stood slowly, limbs gangly but graceful, and Aiden nearly vomited.

Kiyan's midsection was a mess. His ribcage was painfully outlined, the skin stretched taut over the bones, and there was a hole in his stomach. Bits of flesh and muscle and maybe even his internal organs dangled, wobbling as the Cat approached silently. Despite the painful angles of the bones in his legs, he didn't seem to notice; he walked slightly hunched, the claws on his hands lightly scraping the floor beneath him. As he approached, Aiden could see more of the damage to his face; his right eye was completely gone, leaving a dark socket where it had been before. Dried blood and pus stained his face; he hardly looked recognizable anymore, not as Kiyan, barely even as human, but that golden eye stayed fixed on Aiden.

Kiyan reached the end of his slack; he was close to the table Aiden was strapped to, but not quite enough to touch him. He still reached out, one of the claws on his hand lightly brushing against his hair, and Aiden nearly sobbed. "Kiyan, Kiyan it's me, it's Aiden... I came to find you, we're gonna get you out of here, just please..."

Kiyan's head tilted slowly to the right. He continued to twirl Aiden's hair gently with his claws, giving no indication that he had heard anything.

The moment was broken when Kiyan's head snapped to the door. His hand retreated, and he moved back over to his corner, sitting cross-legged again as a key turned in the lock. His eye remained on Aiden.

Karadin stepped through the door, closing it behind himself and smiling when he saw Aiden. "Good. You're awake. I see you've said hello to Kiyan."

"What the fuck have you done to him?" Aiden breathed, watching Karadin move around the room in horror. The Witcher shrugged.

"Tested his limits, to put it bluntly. He's the only Witcher to survive this long. Quite impressive."

"You- You've done this to others?"

"Of course we have. One subject wouldn't be enough to make a solid conclusion." Karadin turned back to him, humming lowly. He twirled a scalpel in one hand and a set of spikes in the other. "Though we've never had another Cat before."

Aiden began jerking at his restraints again as Karadin approached him. He stopped on Aiden's left, tapping his hand with one of the spikes. They were curled into fists to prevent any Sign usage, and Karadin tsked softly. "Let's just deal with this one and for all."

He set the scalpel aside and retrieved a mallet. Without warning, he slammed it into Aiden's fist, drawing a scream from the brunette as he felt his fingers break from the force of it. Karadin removed the guard keeping Aiden's hand in a fist, laying it flat before nailing one of the stakes clean through.

Aiden's back arched off the table. He'd taken beatings before, a few hours of torture, but no one had ever gone directly after his hands. No one really knew how important it was, to render a Witcher truly helpless. And Karadin was going to take that from him for good.

Karadin moved around him, face disturbingly calm as he traced a few scars on Aiden's right hand. "It's quite a shame that I have to do this, truly. But we learned our lesson with Kiyan. Signs are not a risk we can take."

"No," Aiden sobbed, trying to wrench his hand free as Karadin raised the mallet again. "No, please, _stop_ -"

A growl drowned out the increasing volume of Aiden's voice, and Karadin paused, head turning to the figure in the corner. A slow smile spread across his face. "It seems our dear Kiyan recognizes you."

Aiden pressed his eyes shut, feeling tears slip past anyways. Karadin released his hand, and he let out a sob of relief. He heard the rattle of chains, the scrape of Kiyan's claws along the ground. When he opened his eyes again, Kiyan was once more standing at the edge of his allowance, that golden eye firmly settled on Aiden's face. And-

Aiden could see pity in it.

"He's never reacted like this," Karadin commented absently, moving back to Aiden's side. "He must care deeply for you, for him to remember past everything."

He brought the mallet down on Aiden's hand, wrenching another scream from the Cat. It wasn't with the same force, not quite enough to break his hand completely, but with the very real threat that he could.

Kiyan snarled again. Karadin simply stayed out of reach, setting the mallet and stakes aside and grabbing the scalpel again. "I wonder," he commented, tracing the blade lightly over Aiden's skin. The edge was razor-sharp, and beads of blood welled in the path he traced. "What makes him so fond of you? I know you've been with that Wolf pup for years now, but perhaps there was something more between the two of you. Perhaps you let him fuck you?"

The blade dug into the junction of Aiden's hip and leg, and he let out a weak hiss. Karadin angled the scalpel, carefully severing a patch of skin and leaving everything beneath intact. "Perhaps I should let him have his way with you. Drug you up like a bitch in heat, see how long it takes him to claim you. It's been quite some time since he last got some release. I'm sure he would appreciate it."

Aiden turns his head away from Kiyan. The Witcher is snarling at Karadin, tugging slightly on his restraints, but it's clear he's holding back.

He knows that Karadin can simply kill Aiden if he acts out too much.

Bile rises in Aiden's throat as Karadin takes another chunk of skin, this time from his inner thigh. He traces the bloodied blade along the sensitive skin there, trailing up slowly, and Aiden whimpers softly. He can hear the grin in Karadin's voice. 

"Then after that, we'll see how he reacts to someone else fucking you. I wonder, would it finally give him the strength to break out of his chains?"

The blade withdraws, and Aiden lets out a small, shaky breath. He opens his eyes slowly, tracking Karadin as he wipes the blade clean and moves back to his other tools. He pulls open a small door, and Aiden realizes it's a furnace.

His heart clenches when he realizes what Karadin is pulling out. The Witcher admires the red-hot metal for a moment as he returns to Aiden. "Right about now you're probably wondering how you can escape. If your dear Wolf pup will find you and rescue you like some knight in shining armor, or if you'll wake up and find this to all be one horrible, horrible nightmare."

Karadin smiles at him. "I assure you, kitten, this is very real."

He brings the brand down, and Aiden screams.

-

He's stopped counting by days; instead, he now tells time by when Karadin or anyone else visits the room. He's drugged now and again while any life-threatening wounds are tended to, and he's fed with a tube being forced down his throat and some sort of milky substance being poured down it.

Kiyan had lashed out twice at two of the men who thought to have a little fun with Aiden while he was drugged up. One of his chains had snapped the second time, allowing him to swipe at the man and take his head clean off his shoulders.

Karadin himself had overseen the punishment. Not on Kiyan, no. Kiyan could take anything they gave him. What he couldn't stand was being forced to watch Aiden suffer for his mistakes.

It's blessedly quiet that day. Kiyan is resting after pacing the shorter span of his chains for hours while Aiden had drifted in and out of consciousness. He's surprised when a woman enters; anyone coming through the door had been exclusively male. She's soft all over, so unlike the hardened muscles and cold faces Aiden had begun to adjust to.

She brings a basin and a cloth, washing him carefully and applying salve to his wounds. Aiden doesn't have the strength to say anything, so he merely watches her work. Her eyes dart to his now and again, but she doesn't speak either.

She gives him water, too, but he doesn't feel the haze of the drugs clouding his mind. It's pure, untampered water, and it fills his heart with dread.

She leaves without a word, and Aiden stares at the door in confusion. Why give him a moment of softness if the goal was to push him?

He shifts slightly, trying to get somewhat comfortable. His limbs ache from being pinned to the table for so long. He can't bring himself to look at his left hand; Karadin hadn't touched it ever since nailing the spike in, and he knew there was an infection trying to take hold. His right was faring a bit better, though he still feared he wouldn't be in any shape to cast Signs if he ever got out.

When. _When_ he got out. When had he stopped thinking of it as when?

Aiden slips into sleep again. When he wakes, he's warm and tingly all over, and it's uncomfortable. He squirms a bit, but the shifting only succeeds in sending jolts down his spine. He gasps softly, falling still and trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Had the water been drugged after all? Just not with what he was used to?

His mind drifted back to Karadin's threat that first day, and his stomach sank.

Aiden twisted a bit to look at Kiyan. A sharp golden eye met his. Kiyan was standing, as close to Aiden as he could get thanks to his chains, and he kept sniffing the air carefully. After several long moments, he growled and began pacing.

He then realized there were no more chains preventing Kiyan from approaching.

Aiden swallowed hard, shifting to lie flat again. The heat was only getting worse. It was crawling under his skin, making him itch all over. He began to squirm not long after, gritting his teeth and biting his lip and panting softly. He could hear Kiyan paused and look over at him, take a step closer, sniff the air, then growl again and resume pacing.

Aiden began to wonder how long Kiyan's control would last. He could clearly smell the state Aiden was in, and functioning on primal instincts alone as he was, he would soon begin to wonder why he was denying himself. 

Aiden was beginning to find that he didn't care.

"Kiyan," he croaked out. The footsteps stopped immediately. The Witcher moved over slowly, into Aiden's line of sight. His eye was somewhat clouded now; it kept darting around, taking in Aiden's body, the sweat beading on his skin, the flush across his cheeks and shoulders.

Aiden's jaw clenched, and he nodded faintly when Kiyan looked back at his face. Kiyan's head tilted slightly, a clawed hand reaching out to carefully trace his cheek, and Aiden nearly whimpered at the touch.

"Just do it," he whispered, closing his eyes.

Kiyan let go.

-

Karadin had made one fatal error, the same as the sorcerer who had started this.

He'd underestimated Kiyan.

When he'd entered to find Kiyan curled around Aiden and the smell of sweat and sex in the air, he'd started to laugh. He'd approached, ignoring Kiyan's eye flickering open.

He'd reached out to touch Aiden, and Kiyan had severed his hand at the wrist.

Aiden had woken to the screams, alarm flashing through him as he struggled to process what was happening. Kiyan had backed Karadin into the corner, clawing at him and snarling, and Karadin just kept screaming.

A thump sounded as the room went silent, and Kiyan returned to his side, coated in blood. He was huffing softly, studying Aiden. His body was still wracked with the drugs, but not to the point of clouding both of their minds. That golden eye fixed on his, and Kiyan made a croaking sound. He tried again, and again, until Aiden could finally make out what he was trying to say.

"Ayyy.... Deeeen."

A small sob left the Cat as Kiyan worked carefully at his restraints. He snarled at the stake in Aiden's hand, casting him an apologetic look before pulling it out. Aiden gave a shout of pain, but then Kiyan was carefully hefting him into his arms, then shifting Aiden onto his back. He pointedly linked Aiden's hands, then patted them, and Aiden held on for dear life.

Kiyan ran more like an animal than a man. He ran on all fours, claws scraping at the stones. He ignored anyone they passed, ignored the shouts and the swords and the nets. He ran through the halls, clearly having long memorized the way, and before Aiden could truly register it, they were outside.

Kiyan ran for what felt like hours. He only relented when Aiden whimpered softly, unable to hold on much longer, and found a sheltered area of hollow trees to rest in. He set Aiden down carefully, almost reverently, before hurrying off again.

Aiden must have drifted off, because when Kiyan returned the sun was setting and the Witcher had clothing with him, along with more blood. His heart leapt in the realization that Kiyan had gone _back_ to their prison, likely slaughtering everyone in his path.

Kiyan carefully set Aiden's clothes down, revealing the two swords and the medallion wrapped within them. He helped Aiden dress as best as he could, giving annoyed grunts when his claws prevented him from doing much. Eventually, though, Aiden was dressed, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders. Kiyan gave a small noise that might have been a purr; he patted Aiden's shoulder before heading off again. This time, he returned with food.

With much care, Aiden had folded his right hand into Igni, giving them a small fire to work with. His fingers ached, and he didn't dare attempt anything with his mutilated left hand, but it was a relief to know he could still use at least some of the Signs. Whether he would be able to use them in a combat situation was another matter entirely.

He ate slowly, careful not to make himself sick, and when they were finished Kiyan pulled the brunette against himself. He ran a hand through Aiden's hair slowly, careful with his claws, and a deep hum vibrated through his chest. It wasn't quite the same purring noise that the Cats were known for, but it was clearly Kiyan's version of it with his new body.

It was comforting all the same, and Aiden was soon asleep.

-

It was clear Kiyan had learned from his last escape. They stayed far away from any villages or main roads, and Kiyan was quick to become defensive if any travelers were near. He didn't let Aiden go off on his own, either, often finding a sheltered area where the brunette wouldn't be seen and making sure Aiden would stay there before going off to hunt or find water.

Aiden didn't mind it too much; it gave him time to work through some of the mental barriers preventing Kiyan from fully communicating or speaking. Most often, he said the other Cat's name, though Aiden had gotten him to say his own name on occasion, as well as 'food' and 'rest.' It was slow going, and Kiyan quite often fell back into his feral mode, but he could see the remnants of his friend peeking through the cracks.

Kiyan seems to have a certain fascination with Aiden's medallion, as well, and at some point Aiden had placed it around Kiyan's neck. The Witcher had startled, looking at Aiden in confusion, but the brunette had merely smiled and said gently, "It's yours now."

He often found Kiyan tracing the sharp lines of the cat's head, studying it in the firelight. One night, he'd looked up suddenly, excitement in his eye.

"Whhiii... chhhur."

A smile bloomed across Aiden's face, and he nodded, shifting closer. "Yes. Witcher. That's what we are."

After that, he'd told Kiyan about Witchers. The different schools, the mutations, their jobs. Kiyan always listened with interest, occasionally making noises of recognition or repeating words Aiden said carefully.

Around two months after their escape, Aiden had begun practicing with his swords again. He could only really use his right hand, still, which put him at a disadvantage; if the hand that could still cast Signs was busy holding his sword, he could hardly cast Signs at all. He didn't let the issue get to him too much, though, especially with Kiyan watching him constantly, fascinated. 

It had taken him a while to understand why: Kiyan saw his swords as weapons to hurt him, but he had still taken them along with Aiden's clothes, knowing how important they were. Seeing Aiden use them without turning them on him was probably a bit overwhelming and confusing, but more than once Aiden caught Kiyan mimicking some of his movements.

Winter was nearing when Aiden finally convinced Kiyan to let him go into a town. The Cat remained at the edge of the woods, golden eye trained on Aiden as he walked towards the settlement, small noises of distress leaving him. He'd run after Aiden several times, and Aiden had been forced to comfort him and lead him back to the trees several times before he made it to the village in peace.

He asked around for any news of the Caravan. The innkeeper had given him a once-over and taken some pity, setting a plate of food before him. Aiden had stared down at it warily, but the temptation of a decent meal eventually overtook him. The innkeeper explained that the Caravan had passed through a week before, asking about a Witcher fitting Aiden's description. The Cat had sat up at the news, and with a few extra rations and a new bag to carry them with, he hurried back to Kiyan, explaining what he'd learned.

They set off in the direction the man had specified, soon arriving at another town. This time, they learned the Caravan was only a day or two ahead, and Aiden's heart had swelled when one of the maids had commented that there was a temperamental Wolf Witcher with the group.

He caught the scent of them the next day, and Kiyan had hunched over to allow Aiden to hold on to him. They reached the group by noon; they were grim, quieter than usual, and Aiden nearly sobbed when he spotted Lambert among them.

He slid off of Kiyan's back, sprinting the rest of the way himself with a shout. Lambert's head snapped up, and he was on his feet in an instant, racing to meet Aiden halfway. His arms nearly crushed the brunette with how tight he grabbed him, and Aiden let his tears flow freely.

Lambert pulled back a bit, cupping his cheeks. "Aiden," he whispered, eyes darting around to take in his face. "Gods, I didn't know where you _were_ -"

"I know," Aiden murmured, leaning into his touch. "I- I was stupid. I got drugged. Karadin-"

"Jad Karadin did this?" The snarl came from Gaetan; normally reserved, the Cat was easy to anger when it came to Karadin and his advances on the younger Cats. "Son of a bitch, I'm going to kill him-"

"It's a little late for that," Aiden said quietly. He turned a bit as Kiyan approached slowly, and everyone fell silent. Kiyan's eye darted around, and Aiden moved over to him as he saw the panic rising. "Hey," he soothed, resting a hand on Kiyan's arm. "It's okay. They're safe. Witchers." He patted the medallion above Kiyan's heart. "Like us."

Kiyan's gaze settled on him, and he nodded slowly, relaxing. Aiden turned back to everyone; horror was the shared emotion on each of their faces.

Kiyan studied them all again, then nodded in approval. "Ssaayy-fuh."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave it on a bad note. Kiyan needed some love, damnit.
> 
> Leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed, and don't be afraid to point out any mistakes! I don't really edit what I write before posting it. Sorry for the delay, too! Life has been a bit crazy.

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing graphic smut for a fic and of course it's non-con.
> 
> Let me know if you see any errors <3


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